


A Collection of Shorts

by MQAnon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:17:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MQAnon/pseuds/MQAnon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short pieces, all originally posted on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First

Will started to record all the types of kisses Hannibal gave him. There were the soft, gentle sleepy-early-morning kisses, tasting of coffee and breakfast, all warm and loving and dappled with sunlight and plush fabrics. Swift, barely-there kisses in public, lips grazing stubble and brushing soft skin when Hannibal felt the need to remind people that Will was his, his and no one else’s. Frenzied, worried kisses of life and death and loss and love, gasping and full of salt-water tears like captured stars on Hannibal’s cheek, in the silence of his house or the confines of a car, when neither Will nor Hannibal can bear to think of bullets gone stray, of life without the other. Brutal, possessive kisses hiding moans and swallowing gasps and groans, taking Will apart in ways he could never imagine but now can never forget, all of them thrumming with mineminemine, lips almost vicious in violent love. Will loves them all. Will keeps them all.

 


	2. The Second

His voice is honey smoked and spiced with cloves, rough velvet and a gravel made of a thousand tiny polished bones.

"Mano." Will hears it, and knows it is not English. "Mano." Whispered into the skin of his neck before another mark is pulled from the flesh, lips and tongue sucking and pulling and drawing from Will all those tiny noises that Hannibal loves, that Hannibal can’t get enough of. Another bruise to add to the chain already looped around his neck, vicious signs of Hannibal’s love-making. Will wears them with pride.

“Mano.” Will’s hands clench into the sheets as Hannibal’s hips snap forwards again and again and again, each accompanied by a whispered growl, mano, mano, mano. And then Will is shaking and gasping and sobbing as he comes, an inverted nebula exploding behind his eyelids and tears edging his eyelashes like pearls. Hannibal leans down, kisses them all and tastes the clear saltiness of Will, of what he has done to him.

"Mano numylėtinis," he whispers, and Will reaches up to pull their mouths together, to draw from him those whispered endearments. "Mano brangiausia."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mano: Mine
> 
> Mano numylėtinis: My Darling
> 
> Mano brangiausia: My Dearest


	3. The Third (Disney Edition)

The rabbithole is deep and full of the oddest things. Candelabras of carved bone and animal skulls float in the air besides twisted chains of rich paisley ties and living flowers, roots grasping at the air for the precious moisture Will exhales as he falls. Once Will thinks he sees a rack of antlers wound around with vines and cradling bottles of wine, but by now he’s falling to fast to tell.

It doesn’t feel like falling, though. More like floating, drifting down and down and down a wood-paneled rabbit-hole with the wind plucking at his tangled hair and tugging insistently at his coat. Eventually, he takes it off. The wind subsides after that, and finally lets him reach the bottom. The walls of the rabbit-hole flow seamlessly to the floor, rise up again in the middle to a table the perfect height for Will. There’s a single plate on it, bearing a steak – arranged in a way that Will has only ever seen before in fancy restaurants – and a small, simple card that says nothing more than ‘Eat me’. Will narrows his eyes, pulls his jacket closer around his body, and stalks to the table. The wood under his bare feet is cool, slip-smooth from varnish and silent beneath each step, his breathing loud in the vast smallness of the rabbit-hole. He doesn’t like it. It feels too big and too small, a maze of fine lines embedded into the walls of an endless labyrinth. But nevertheless, he’s here now, and the steak looks delicious.

Cautiously, so very cautiously, he reaches for the silverware – three forks, three knives, even three spoons and two different glasses – and spears a single potato, and then a carrot and then grabs the knife and then he’s eaten the whole thing. The room is starting to feel more big than small now, and Will finds that reassuring. He hadn’t liked the rubix-cube logic of this place, the way it was never stable, never reliable. Will doesn’t notice that he’s shrinking until the table looms above him, and suddenly he can see the black-skinned creature that was waiting for him where floor first flowed to form table.

“Hello,” the creature says, its voice all unlikely cello strings and cobwebs hung with quartz, “My name is Dr Lecter. You’re just on time.”


	4. The Fourth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gift for hannigram.com

Will swallows, and Hannibal can feel the rise and press of cartilage rings under his palm for the briefest of moments. His fingers remain looped around Will’s throat, constraining and constricting but not harmful, just tight enough that _he_ is the one in control of Will’s breath. Of Will’s life. His other hand rests against Will’s forehead, fingers wound through chocolate-silk curls, moving in lazy, easy motions against his scalp. Will leans into it, closes his eyes and steadily breathes in the fire-oak-iron scent of Hannibal. It’s…reassuring, somehow, to be held like this, leaning against Hannibal’s chest and for once letting someone else take control, letting someone else hold the shattered mirrors and twisted leaves of his mind.

"Will. Breathe."

Warm tones on a warm tongue that slip-slide through the air, more like old, dried petals than a voice. Will feels them as much as he hears them, reverberating through his skull and down his spine, overlaying the beat, beat, beat of Hannibal’s solid heart. He does as he’s told and feels the rush of cool air down his throat, the way Hannibal’s fingers press slightly tighter again around his windpipe. He exhales a dusty breath onto Hannibal’s waistcoat, mixing smells and scents into something unique and reassuring, a cocoon of rough, warm flannel and fire-side tones.

"Thank you, Daddy," he murmurs, and for a split, frozen second he feels the heavy warmth of Hannibal’s finger stop running across his scalp, before they resume their motion. Hannibal bends down, brushes his hair aside, presses a soft kiss to Will’s forehead.

"Good boy, Will."


	5. The Fifth

Theirs is a bubble of softness and silence, of sweat-slicked skin and silken sheets tangled between legs and clutched beneath hands, breaths short and gasping in the twilight silver room. Hannibal’s hands flex and curl into gentle skin, a dichotomy of solid bone lurking beneath the surface but made mild by the muscle that encompasses it, now stretched and pulled taught as Will arcs his back, tilts back his head to let a riot of curls brush against his shoulders. He groans, and the sound of it is the roughness of once-frosted earth and amber leaves,the sunlight warmth of flesh and God, Hannibal can _feel_ the resonances running through him.

It is all he can do to bite back a groan of his own, but the sound of his name, broken and tumbling loose from Will’s lips frees his throat enough to let one slip past.

And then he can’t stop, all the liquid steel control he had cultivated breaking like old thread beneath Will’s ceaseless motion, shifting back and forth as silk bunches beneath Hannibal’s back and blood rushes in electric tides along his spine. He can’t stop. He won’t stop.

Later, when pulses calm and neuron-stars settle in their turn, Hannibal watches quietly as Will tucks himself against his chest, curls up against him and revels in the trapped warmth beneath the sheets. They don’t speak, just lay still and quiet until Hannibal leans and inhales Will’s scent; comfort-worn cotton, aftershave with a ship on the bottle and old books with pages turned gold and faded with love. Will is everything Hannibal isn’t, the perfect balance to the steel and iron-bound oak that Hannibal has built himself from.

They are a balancing act.


	6. The Sixth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gift for luvkurai.tumblr.com

The sunlight tastes of honey and ginger, warm and satin-smooth and faintly spicy, playing over the long expanse of muscle and bone that makes up Will’s back and turning every tiny hair to a gilded sliver of quiet fire. It saturates the air, blowing gold to every corner of Will’s own, little room and playing over Wills dark curls to turn them to a myriad shades of oak and amber, a flawless riot resplendent on the stark white of the pillow. The light turns the room to a halcyon sanctuary, silent and perfect and only ever theirs.

His pretty boy is dozing now, calm and slack and pliant beside him, made up all gorgeous for him – _just for him_ – in silks and jewels, sheer fabric clinging to his hips and waist and accentuating every curve and dip of perfect, oil-brushed skin. Hannibal lies beside him, supporting himself on one arm as he trails his fingers along Will’s spine, relishing the warmth and softness that embraces his skin and flesh and bones. The sultan knows that Will is made of many things he is not; in his landscape of violence and sharp diplomacy his pretty boy is a guiding point of refuge and solace, gentle in soft, watered silks and encompassed entirely by his kindness. Will can be sharp too, though – the thorns that lurk beneath his skin can lash out just as quick and as vicious as Hannibal, but where Hannibal strives to control them Will does not even know they are there, keeping his moments of glorious savageness a secret from himself and his fellow concubines.

Will starts to stir next to him, drifting back to consciousness as Hannibal’s fingers skim lower and lower, now followed by soft, barely-there kisses that the sultan presses to his flesh, bending over Will’s prone, relaxed body. “Don’t move,” Hannibal murmurs, “You’re too gorgeous like this…”

Will flushes, turns, and pressed his face into the pillow, trying not to squirm from Hannibal’s gentle treatment. He loves his sultan more than anything, and will do anything he says.


	7. The Seventh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gift for mean-cannibals.tumblr.com

Cartilage rings press up and against his palms in a copper-drum rhythm, pulsing again and again and again in time with Hannibal’s breath.  Will sits astride him, pinning Hannibal to the smooth, silk polished floor of his office, varnished wood distorting his features and throwing them back at him in a cruel approximation of the human form. Blood is already bubbling up and out of Hannibal’s mouth, staining those thin lips a vibrant, delicious scarlet, and Will doesn’t know if he wants to kiss him or kill him.

Both, he thinks.

He bends down, grinds his hips against Hannibal’s and delights in the sensation of the older man’s breath being stoppered by his hands as he tries to gasp, throat slowly filling with rusted blood and blackened breath. With a vicious grin he tilts his head to claim Hannibal’s mouth, nipping at his lips and tasting his blood and his breath and God, Will feels like a star has been lodged behind and between his ribs. Every action sings clear crystal along his nerves and through his bones, harsh and primal and painted in a crimson-silver brocade of gunmetal lace. He loves it. He loves this feeling of power, of complete control.

Will lets his tongue slip into Hannibal’s mouth, tasting for just a moment before pulling back, licking at the blood trickling down the side of his neck. His hands loosen, just for a second, giving Hannibal the chance to take a single, long breath, pulling colour back into skin grown pale. But then Will tightens his grasp again, thumb rubbing against the pulse, pulse, pulse of Hannibal’s artery.

"There can only be one," he growls, accentuating the words with a flex of his hands and a shift of his hips, eyes wild with savage, carmine glory. "Only. Ever. One." A twist of his head, a brief, glistening moment, and his teeth sink into the side of Hannibal’s neck, blood welling and turning Will’s lips as red as Hannibal’s.  "But you…you are _mine_.”

Will releases his neck, looks over, and sees Hannibal’s eyes burning nebula-bright, pride and fear and arousal catching his gaze, holding it.

“ _Mine_.”

"…Yours."


End file.
